


Bing Crosby, Eat Your Freaking Heart Out

by lielabell



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst and Humor, Christmas, Community: deancas_xmas, First Kiss, Happy Ending, M/M, Magic Fingers, Mistletoe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-14
Updated: 2012-01-14
Packaged: 2017-10-29 13:15:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/320309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lielabell/pseuds/lielabell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two hours of Magic Fingers should be able to cure what ails him, but Dean’s still got his own personal raincloud floating over him when the bed stops vibrating and that point Dean’s ready to just call it a freaking night already.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bing Crosby, Eat Your Freaking Heart Out

**Author's Note:**

> This wouldn’t have even happened without my betas, cymbalism219 and nokomis305. Seriously. They deserve all the love in the world.

Dean's had a lot of shitty Christmases in his life, but this one just about takes the cake. He's in Baker, California, who's main claim to fame is being home to the world's tallest thermometer and being just about halfway to the middle of nowhere. So, yeah. Not exactly a place Dean has ever been bucking to visit, let alone be in for Christmas. And, because being stuck in a town of less than a thousand people isn't crappy enough, Dean is there all by his lonesome. Which blows massive chunks.

It's not enough for his life to be a string of sleazy motels and low budget holidays. No, he's got to be _alone_ on _Christmas_. In some freaking roach hotel. While Sam's off having turkey and stuffing and homemade pumpkin pie over at Bobby's. Not that Dean wasn't invited, but this particular ghost only shows it's ugly mug on Christmas. In _Baker_ , which, honestly, shouldn't be big enough to warrant a ghost, damn it. And Sam, for all he wanted to come along and watch Dean's back, is laid up with a busted leg and an arm in a sling after a nasty run in with some ghouls a few weeks back. So Sam was sitting this one out and Dean was, well, less than pleased about it.

Because yeah, maybe he'd spent that vast majority of his Christmases in seedy hotels with gas station gifts under Charlie Brown trees, but all those Christmases had Sam in them too. And that made them just as merry and bright as anyone else’s.

So that just about sums it up. _Ghosts._ On _Christmas_. Alone. In _Baker_.

Dean sighs dramatically, which typically he wouldn't do because it's such a Sam move, but there's no one there to hear it anyway and the hunt can't start until Christmas, which is still ten hours off. He runs a hand over his face and debates whether or not it's worth it to turn on the TV. Odds are it will be nothing but static and Christmas Specials, which will just depress the shit outta him anyway. He sighs again, because why the hell not, and scrounges in his pocket for a couple of quarters. He digs out a crumpled dollar bill; two pennies; a chewed up slug that might be a nickel; and four beautiful, brilliant quarters, which Dean then deposits into the Magic Fingers machine.

He flops back onto the bed, arms crossed behind his head and tell himself to just grow a pair already. So what if he's flying solo. That's life. And it's not like Sam got hurt on purpose just to make Dean's Christmas suck.

Two hours of Magic Fingers should be able to cure what ails him, but Dean’s still got his own personal raincloud floating over him when the bed stops vibrating and that point Dean’s ready to just call it a freaking night already. He props himself up on his side and turns off the light before crawling under the covers.

He closes his eyes and breathes in and out for a while, willing his mind to go blank. It doesn't work. He flips onto his back and counts backwards from a hundred. Dean gets to fifty-four before he gives it up.

"God damn it."

He scowls up at the ceiling because all this Depressive Drew shit is really starting to get to him, but then brightens a bit as a thought hits him. Dean bites his lower lip as he slips his hand below the blanket and under his boxers because if nothing else a little self love will at least get him out of the craptastic head space he's in.

Ten minutes later he is yawing as he tosses a handful of damp tissues onto the floor. He'll deal with them in the morning, Dean thinks before drifting off into sleep.

*

"Dean."

Dean groans, pushing at the hand shaking his shoulder. "Five more minutes, Sammy."

The hand doesn't budge. "Dean."

He squeezes his eyes shut as the light on the side table turns on before tugging a pillow over his head. "Go away," he mutters, rubbing his face against the cool fabric.

"It is urgent that I speak with you."

The pillow is yanked out of his grasp and Dean lets out an indignant howl. "That's just not right," he blusters as he blinks owlishly up at the offending party. "Cas?" he frowns. "What are you doing here?"

The angel frowns right back at him. "I already told you, it is imperative for me to talk to you."

Dean pushes up into a seated position and then rubs his eyes with his palms. "I hate my life."

Cas does his head-tilt thing and squints at Dean. "No, you don't."

Dean rubs a hand over his face and shrugs. "Okay, lay it on me."

"Lay what on you?"

He gives Cas his best bitch-please face. "Don't be dense."

"I," Cas short of shuffles his feet, looking uncomfortable as shit.

"Spit it out already," Dean says, amusement at Cas's embarrassment pushing aside any lingering resentment about being woken up way too early.

Cas does that shuffle step again and then straightens up, like he's gearing up for battle. "I have a message for you from Sam."

Dean waits a beat, then prompts him. "And?"

Cas clears his throat. "'Don't be a dumb-ass'"

God damn it, seriously? Dean scowls. "Gee, thanks for that. Merry fucking Christmas and a god damn happy New year."

"He also said to tell you that he is saving you a piece of pie."

"Oh, 'cause that makes it all better." Dean makes a face. "Alright, message received. Feel free to flutter off now."

Cas frowns. "I'm not going anywhere."

"Huh?"

"Bobby and Sam both asked that I stay with you for the duration of this hunt." Cas lifts a shoulder. "They felt it would be better if you were not alone."

Dean snorts. "What, are you my freaking baby-sitter now?" he shakes his head. "Nope, not gonna happen." He makes a shooing motion. "Fly away home."

“Dean.” Cas’s voice is low and rough and filled with frustration. Dean smiles a little at it and lets out a put-upon huff of air.

“Fine,” he says as he pushes back the blanket. “Stay.” He rolls his shoulders and stands up. “I’m taking a shower. How’s about you make yourself useful and conjure up some food while I’m in there?” He takes a step forward and grimaces as his foot comes down on one of last night’s used tissues. “Oh, and get rid of those too,” he adds, because he’s in the mood to be a dick.

“Dean,” Cas says again, his face taking on that god-damn- _humans_ look of his.

“Shower,” Dean grunts out as he pushes past the angel on the way to the bathroom. He hears Cas mutter something un-angelic under his breath, but doesn’t let himself grin until the bathroom door is firmly closed behind him.

*

“I always knew you were my favorite angel,” Dean says around a mouthful of deliciousness some twenty minutes later. He’s got a towel slung low on his hips, a half-eaten bacon cheeseburger in one hand and a chocolate malt shake in the other. He swallows, takes a long pull on the shake and then groans. “Breakfast of champions,” he quips.

Cas gives him a thoughtful look before nodding. “Yes.”

Dean feels his forehead wrinkle at that, but he decides to just let it lie, because his mouth has way better things to do right now than ferret out the meaning behind that. He takes another big bite of his cheeseburger and rolls his eyes in appreciation as he chews.

“I am glad that you are enjoying your food,” Cas says with a little head nod that ought to be ridiculous but somehow suites him perfectly.

Dean gives him a wide grin in response. “So, want me to fill you in on the details?”

“No need. Sam already provided me with them.”

“Of course he did.” Dean drinks some more of his shake then jerks his head in the direction of his duffel bag. “Mind giving me a little privacy.”

Cas follows his gaze, then snaps his eyes back to Dean. To Dean’s delight, the angel actually blushes. “Of course,” he intones, turning to face the wall. “Please let me know when you are fully attired.”

“Will do, buck-o.” Dean crosses the room and deposits his food and drink on the nightstand next to the bed. He bends down and rummages through his bag, pulling out a shirt he’s fairly sure is clean and jeans he’s only worn twice. He sniffs at a pair of boxers, makes a face and then tosses them aside. The next pair pass the sniff test and he shimmies into them before sitting on the bed to pull on his socks.

“I’m decent,” he says a short time later and Cas turns around as Dean’s buckling his belt. The angel’s eyes catch on Dean’s fingers and something warm flairs to life in Dean’s stomach as a result. The feeling is not new or entirely unwanted, but dealing with it isn’t exactly on Dean’s to-do list, so he shrugs mentally and picks up his food like nothing happened. “You ready to case the place?”

“Of course.”

“Alright, then. Let’s get this show on the road.”

*

It doesn’t take that long to trek out to the ghost’s happy place, which is, not unsurprisingly, a creepy, decrepit house surrounded on all four sides by dry, arid desert.

"At least there's no nosey neighbors," Dean comments as they make their way up to the place. The door is missing and so is most of the roof. A good two inches of sand cover the floors and it looks like something has been using one corner of the front room as a lair.

"Dude," Dean says as they make their way to the back of the house, "why would anyone come out here on Christmas in the first place?"

Cas lifts shoulder and makes his "why do humans do _anything_?" face.

"Yeah, yeah. I know. Murder and mystery get us every time, no matter how much people harp on about curiosity and cats."

"I would ask you to explain," Cas says as he pushes past Dean to look into the kitchen, "but I'm certain that I still wouldn't understand if you did."

Dean rolls his eyes, but has to admit the truth of that. "Probably." He shines a light into what was once a pantry but is now a halfway house for vermin. "See anything that might lead to the identity of our ghosts?"

"No. But I do see what looks like a grave marker out back."

"What?" Dean turns towards Cas, who has moved over to a half boarded-up window. Cas points and Dean squints in the same general direction, but can't see anything. "I wanna take a closer look."

He doesn't wait for a reply, just trusts that Cas will follow him. They are about halfway between the house and the spot Cas marked as the likely grave when a sandstorm kicks up. Dean curses and throws a hand in front of his face, blocking out the worst of it. He curses again, because how the fuck is he supposed to get the upper hand when he can't see straight, when it suddenly stops. Dean drops his arm and blinks a bit to try and clear out his eyes. "What just happened?" He spins around in time to see Cas lowering a hand that is still faintly glowing. "Cas?"

"Yes?"

"Want to explain to the class?"

Cas frowns at him. "I only banished it momentarily, Dean. I think any explanation can wait until after we have dealt with it properly."

“Right.”

They hurry across the remaining bit of desert to find that, yes, it is a grave after all. Dean looks down at the dirt, suddenly realize what isn’t in his hands, and then back over his shoulder towards the car, where all his supplies are. He lets out an extremely rude comment and then starts to trudge back when Cas does that vanishing trick of his and when he pops back into being he's got the bones with him.

"Ah, honey, you shouldn't have," Dean coos as he claps Cas on the shoulder.

Cas frowns. "I thought you would be pleased."

"I am. Believe me, I am. Now how about you do that again but this time bring me back some salt and my lighter?"

"Not necessary," Cas says with a little shrug.

"What do you mean, not necessary?" Dean scowls. "It's not a salt and burn without the _salt_ and the _burn_."

Cas gives him a smug look and then sort of just _stares_ at the bones.

They go up in smoke.

So apparently having an angel help out on a ghost hunt is sort of like using a blowtorch to light a cigarette. All Cas has to do is look at the bones funny and wham, bamm thank you m’am, all better, while Dean just sort of stands there, twiddling his thumbs. Which, yeah, gets the job done, but takes all of the fun out of it too.

Dean knows he shouldn’t be complaining, because really digging up a grave and burning what he finds inside is so not the present he wanted Santa to leave under his tree, but still. It sorta sucks to just be the pretty sidekick, or, worse yet, the comic relief.

He lets out a sigh as the bright light fades from Cas and slaps the ghost dust from his jeans. "That's that," he says to fill the silence.

Cas gives him a narrowed-eyed look. "You are displeased."

Dean shrugs. "What can I say? I like the thrill of the chase."

“The thrill of the chase,” Cas says thoughtfully, his left hand slipping into the pocket of his trench coat. “Hum. Then perhaps I shouldn’t give you it after all.”

If Dean were a dog, his ear would have perked up. “Give me what?” Cas tilts his head to the side and studies Dean long enough to make him squirm. “Give me what?” Dean repeats.

“This.” Cas holds out his hand.

Dean stares down at it, trying to decide if he should laugh or not. “Um, Cas?” he glances up and can’t help but smile at the hopeful look on the angel’s face.

“Sam said it was traditional,” Cas says as if that explains everything.

“So I’ve got Sam to thank for the fact that you are showing me your twig and berries? Good to know.”

Cas’s face blanks. “I don’t follow.”

“And thank god for that.” Dean licks his lips. “Look, maybe I should explain--”

Cas cuts him off with a shake of his head. “Not relevant.”

“You don’t even know what I was going to say.”

Cas takes a half a step forward. “I don’t need you to explain. I know exactly what to do. Also, Sam said to tell you ‘you’re welcome.’”

“Welcome for what?” Dean demands, though he has a damn good idea. An idea that is confirmed as Cas closes the distance between them, his left arm shooting up so that the clump of mistletoe is suspended over Dean’s head.

“For this,” Cas answers, his right arms wrapping around Dean’s waist, tugging him in for a kiss.

Cas’s lips are warm and soft and not at all chapped, the way Dean always imaged they would be. They part almost instantly, rubbing gently against Dean’s. Dean’s hands come up, cupping Cas’s face as he deepens the kiss, nipping a little at the angel’s lower lip. Cas lets out a moan that send tingles down Dean’s spine, his arm squeezing tighter, pulling Dean closer.

And suddenly Dean doesn’t care that he’s halfway to the middle of nowhere, spending Christmas in a freaking desert in a town the size of a suburban high school. Because Cas has his hands on Dean’s hips, and his mouth of Dean’s neck and holy fucking hell. Norman Rockwell’s got nothing on this. Bing Crosby, eat your freaking heart out because Dean Winchester’s got Christmas covered.


End file.
